The Enchantress received him in the drawing-room; but, to her surprise, the air of the earl was cold and formal.
He seated himself in a chair at a distance from the sofa which Diana occupied; and for some moments he uttered not a word.
A sentiment of pride prevented her from saying anything to elicit an explanation of his ceremonial manner, because she was not aware that she was guilty of a fault meriting such treatment.
At length that silence, most embarrassing to both, was broken by the earl.
“Diana,” he said, “we must separate. You have conducted yourself in a manner that has made me the laughing-stock of all who know me.”
“My lord!” exclaimed Diana, perfectly astonished at this accusation; “you must have been misinformed; or you are bantering me.”
“Neither the one nor the other,” replied the earl. “You may probably conceive whether I am inclined to jest, when I state that your kind consideration towards Sir Rupert Harborough has reached my ears.”
“Indeed, my lord!” cried Diana. “I do not attempt to deny that I forwarded, anonymously, to Sir Rupert Harborough a sum of money to extricate him from a fearful embarrassment.”
“It would be unmanly in me to do more than remind you whence came that money which you could afford to fling away upon an unprincipled profligate,” said the Earl of Warrington; “at the same time, you cannot suppose that it is pleasant to my feelings to learn that the world makes itself merry at my expense.”
“Your lordship is aware that I am the last person in existence to do aught to occasion you the slightest uneasiness. Perhaps I was wrong——”
“You cannot, with your good sense, think otherwise. But let us not dispute upon the point: the thing is done, and cannot be recalled; but its effect is fatal to our connexion.”
“Your lordship does not mean——”
“I mean that we must separate, Diana,” interrupted the nobleman, firmly.
“Is my fault irreparable in your eyes?” asked the Enchantress, tears trickling down her cheeks.
“No man can endure ridicule—and I am particularly sensitive in that respect.”
“But where did you learn that such was the result of my foolish kindness?” said Diana, almost bewildered by the suddenness with which this blow had come upon her.
“I will give you every explanation you require, as in duty bound,” replied the earl. “Captain Fitzhardinge, an officer in the Grenadier Guards, is an acquaintance of mine. He is a visitor at the house of Sir Rupert Harborough; and last evening Lady Cecilia Harborough told him what she called a capital anecdote of how she had cheated her husband out of a thousand pounds. Then, it appears, they laughed heartily at this excellent joke; and Lady Cecilia proceeded to inform him that she had discovered whence the handsome subsidy emanated. She concluded, in terms more galling then polite, by ridiculing the Earl of Warrington, who was foolish enough to supply Mrs. Arlington so munificently with money, that she was enabled to spare some for her ancient lovers. You have asked me for the plain truth, and I have told it, as Captain Fitzhardinge stated it to me.”
“And thus a trivial indiscretion on my part has created all this mischief,” sobbed the Enchantress.
“You have acted most unwisely, Diana: I will not go so far as to say that you must have had some particular motive in forwarding that money to one who——”
“Heaven knows the purity of my motive!” exclaimed Diana, wiping away her tears, and glancing proudly towards the nobleman.
“The world will scarcely admit that purity of motive in such a case was possible. Consider the inferences that must be drawn——”
“And do you, my lord, believe that any unworthy reason of that kind led me to assist Sir Rupert Harborough?” demanded the Enchantress.
“If I may judge by your outward conduct towards me, I should give a decided negative in reply to your question. But we should no longer be happy in each other’s society, while the least ground for unpleasant suspicions existed. We will, then, separate—but separate as good friends.”
“Be it so, my lord,” said Diana, the flush of injured pride dyeing her cheeks, while she conquered the emotions that rose in her bosom.
“The lease of this house, and every thing it contains, are yours,” continued the earl, after a moment’s pause: “in this pocket-book there is a cheque——”
“No, my lord,” interrupted Diana; “your bounty has already done much for me—more than you seem to think I have deserved: I cannot accept another favour at your lordship’s hands.”
The Earl of Warrington was struck by this answer, which proved that his mistress was not selfish; and for a few moments he was upon the point of making overtures for a reconciliation.
But the dread of ridicule—the fear of being laughed at as a man who kept a mistress for the benefit of others—the horror of being made the laughing-stock of all the rakes and demireps in London, smothered the lenient feelings that had awoke in his breast.
“You refuse to accept this token of my friendship, Diana?” he said.
“I must beg most respectfully to decline it, my lord—with fervent gratitude, nevertheless, for your generosity.”
Again the earl wavered.
He looked at that beautiful woman who had been so charming and fascinating a companion,—who had advised him as a faithful friend in various matters upon which he had consulted her,—and who, to all appearance, had conducted herself so well towards him, save in this one instance;—he gazed upon her for a few moments, and his stern resolves melted rapidly away.
“Diana,” he said, “we——”
At that moment the sounds of voices in the street caused him to turn his head towards the window; and he perceived Captain Fitzhardinge and another gentleman riding by on horseback.
They were laughing heartily, and gazing towards the house.
The Earl of Warrington’s sensitive mind instantly suggested to him the idea that the anecdote of the thousand pounds was being again retailed, and most probably accompanied by the intimation that that was the house of the complaisant Earl of Warrington’s mistress!
The Enchantress, with that keen perception that characterises woman, had seen all that was passing in the earl’s mind,—had observed him waver twice, and had felt convinced on the second occasion that he would court a reconciliation.
But when those voices and that hearty laughter from the street fell upon her ears, and when she saw the blood rush to the earl’s countenance as he glanced in that direction, she knew that all was over.
The earl rose and said, “Give me your hand, Diana: we will part, as I said, good friends; and remember that I shall always be ready to serve you. Farewell!”
“Farewell, my lord,” returned Mrs. Arlington, extending her hand, which the nobleman pressed with lingering tenderness.
Then, afraid of another access of weakness, the Earl of Warrington wrung her hand warmly, and precipitated himself from the room.
The Enchantress hurried to the window, concealed herself behind the curtain, and watched him as he mounted his horse to depart.
He did not glance once upwards to the window: perhaps he knew that she was there!
And yet her pride prompted her to conceal herself in that manner.
When he was out of sight, she threw herself upon the sofa and wept.
“Oh! if I had but said one word when his hand pressed mine,” she exclaimed, “I might still have retained him! He is gone!—my best, my only friend!”
But Diana was not a woman to give way to grief for any length of time. She possessed great mental fortitude, which, though subdued for a short space, soon rose predominant over this cruel affliction.
Then she began to reflect upon her position.
She had a house beautifully furnished; and she possessed a consi
derable sum of ready money. She had therefore no disquietude for the present, and but little apprehension for the future; for she knew that her personal beauty and mental qualifications would soon bring another lover to her feet.
But she seriously thought of renouncing the species of life to which she had for some years been devoted: she longed to live independently and respectably.
In this frame of mind she passed the remainder of the day, pondering upon a variety of plans in accordance with her new desire.
She retired early to rest; but, not feeling an inclination to sleep, she amused herself with a book. The candle stood upon a table by the side of the bed; and Diana, luxuriously propped up by the downy pillows, culled the choicest flowers from Byron’s miscellaneous poetic wreath.
An hour elapsed; and at length she grew sleepy. The book fell from her hand, and her eye-lids closed.
Then she remembered no more until she was suddenly aroused by a sensation of acute pain: she started up, and found the bed enveloped in flames.
She sprang upon the floor; but her night-dress was on fire:—she threw herself on the carpet, and rolled over and over in terrible agony, piercing screams issuing from her lips.
Those screams were echoed by loud cries of “Fire!” from the street, and then there was a rush of footsteps upon the stairs.
The door of the chamber was forced open, and Diana was caught up in the arms of a policeman, who had effected an entry to the house through the ground-floor windows.
She was carried in a state of insensibility down into the parlour, where a cloak was hastily thrown over her, and she was conveyed to a neighbouring hotel. Fortunately a medical man was passing at the moment; and he tendered his aid.
Meantime the fire spread with astonishing rapidity. The servants were extricated from the burning pile; but little property was saved.
A considerable time elapsed before the engines arrived; and when they did reach the spot, an adequate supply of water could not be procured, as the springs were ice-bound by the frost.
An immense crowd collected in the street; and all was bustle or curiosity.
The broad red flames shot upward with a roar like that of a furnace: the scene for a good distance round was as light as noon-day; and the heavens immediately above appeared to be on fire.
At one time the neighbouring houses were endangered; but suddenly the roof of the burning tenement fell in with a terrific crash; and then the conflagration seemed smothered.
But in few minutes the flame shot upwards once more; and another hour elapsed ere it was completely subdued.
The newspapers announced next morning that Mrs. Arlington’s property was not insured, and that the lady herself lay in a most precarious state at the hotel to which she been conveyed.
CHAPTER CXXIII.
ARISTOCRATIC MORALS.
IT was still dark, though past seven o’clock, on the morning which succeeded the fire, when a somewhat strange scene occurred at the house of Sir Rupert Harborough in Tavistock Square.
The baronet, in his slippers and dressing-gown, cautiously descended the stairs, guiding himself with his left hand placed upon the balustrade, and conducting a young female with his right.
They maintained a profound silence, and stole down so carefully that it was easy to perceive they were fearful of alarming the household.
But while he was still descending the stairs, leading the young female, who was fully dressed, even to her bonnet and shawl, the following thoughts passed rapidly through the mind of the baronet.
“After all, it is absurd for me to take this trouble to get my new mistress secretly out of the house. Why should she not walk boldly in and out, night or day, I wonder? ’Pon my honour, I have a great mind that she should! But, no—whatever agreement exists between me and Lady Cecilia, a certain degree of decency must be observed before the servants, and for the sake of one’s character with the neighbours. After all, prudence is perhaps the best system.”
His thoughts were at this moment interrupted by steps upon the stairs, which evidently were not the echoes of those of himself and his paramour.
He paused and listened.
Those steps were descending with great apparent caution, and yet a little more heavily than was quite consistent with entire secrecy.
The baronet led his mistress hastily after him, crossed the hall, and then drew her along with him into an obscure corner near the front-door.
“Silence, Caroline—silence,” he whispered: “it is most likely the housemaid.”
The baronet and his mistress accordingly remained as quiet as mice in the corner where they were concealed.
Meantime the steps gradually grew nearer and nearer; and now and then a low and suppressed whisper on the stairs met the baronet’s ear.
A vague suspicion that some adventure, which those who were interested in it were anxious to conduct with as much secrecy as possible, was in progress, now entered the mind of Sir Rupert Harborough. He accordingly became all attention.
And now the steps ceased to echo upon the stairs, but advanced towards the front-door.
The hall was pitch-dark; but the baronet was satisfied that two persons—a male and female—were the actors in the proceeding which now interested him; and all doubt on this head was banished from his mind when they halted within a few feet of the corner where he and his mistress were concealed.
Then the whispering between the two persons whose conduct he was watching re-commenced.
“Farewell, dearest Cecilia,” said the low and subdued voice of a man.
“Farewell, beloved Fitzhardinge,” answered the other voice, with whose intonation, in spite of the whisper in which it spoke, the baronet was full well acquainted.
Then there was the billing murmur of kisses, which continued for some moments.
“When shall we meet again, dearest?” demanded Fitzhardinge, still in the same low tone.
“To-night—at the usual hour I will admit you,” returned Lady Cecilia. “Sir Rupert goes to France to-night with his splendid friend Chichester.”
“Thank heaven for that blessing!” said the Grenadier Guardsman. “And now, adieu, sweet Cecilia, until this evening! But, tell me, before I depart—shall I always find you the same warm, loving, devoted, fond creature you now are?”
“Always—always to you,” was the murmuring reply.
Then kisses were exchanged again.
“And am I indeed the first whom you have ever really loved? am I the only one who has ever tasted the pleasures of heaven in your arms, save your husband?” continued the officer, intoxicated with the reminiscences of the night of bliss which he had enjoyed with his paramour: “Oh! tell me so once again—only once!”
“You know that you alone could have tempted me to weakness, Fitzhardinge,” answered the fair, but guilty patrician lady: “you alone could have induced me to forget my marriage vows!”
“Now I shall depart happy, my beloved Cecilia,” said the officer; and again he imprinted burning kisses upon the lady’s lips.
He then turned towards the front-door, and endeavoured to remove the chain: but it had become entangled with the key in some way or another; and he could not detach it.
“What is the matter?” inquired Cecilia, anxiously.
“This infernal chain is fast,” answered the officer; “and all I can do will not move it.”
“Let me try,” said the lady; but her attempt was as vain as that of her lover.
“What is to be done?” asked Fitzhardinge.
“God knows!” returned Cecilia; “and it is growing late! In half-an-hour it will be day-light. Besides, the servants will be about presently.”
“The devil!” said the officer, impatiently.
“Stay,” whispered Lady Cecilia: “I will go to the kitche
n and obtain a light. Do not move from this spot: I will not be a moment.”
She then glided away; and the officer remained at his post as motionless and as silent as a statue, for fear of alarming the inmates of the house. His thoughts were not, however, of the most pleasureable kind; and during the two minutes that Lady Cecilia was absent, his mind rapidly pictured all the probable consequences of detection—exposure, ridicule, law-suit, damages, the Queen’s Bench prison, the divorce of the lady, and the necessity under which he should labour of making her his own wife.
This gloomy perspective was suddenly enlivened by the gleam of a candle at the further end of the hall, and which was immediately followed by the appearance of Lady Cecilia, with a light.
Still the corner in which Sir Rupert and his paramour were concealed was veiled in obscurity; while the baronet obtained a full view of the tall Guardsman, dressed in plain clothes, standing within a couple of yards of his hiding-place, and also of Lady Cecilia, attired in a loose dressing-gown, as she advanced rapidly towards the place where her lover awaited her.
But when Cecilia reached the immediate vicinity of the front-door, the gleam of the candle fell upon that nook which had hitherto remained buried in obscurity.
A scream escaped the lady’s lips, and the candle fell from her hands.
Fortunately it was not extinguished: Sir Rupert rushed forward and caught it up in time to preserve the light.
Then, at a single glance, those four persons became aware of each other’s position.
A loud laugh escaped the lips of the baronet.
“Sir,” said the officer, advancing towards him, “for all our sakes avoid exposure: but if you require any satisfaction at my hand, you know who I am and where I reside.”
“Satisfaction!” exclaimed Lady Cecilia, ironically; for she had recovered her presence of mind the moment she had perceived the equivocal position in which her husband himself was placed in respect to the female who stood quivering and quaking behind him: “what satisfaction can Sir Rupert Harborough require, when he admits such a creature as that into his house?”
The Mysteries of London Volume 1 Page 126